


In The Picture

by straponselina



Series: In the Picture [1]
Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex, poorly-mixed metaphors, post 5x07, talking about cars as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23442433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straponselina/pseuds/straponselina
Summary: Lalo won't stop calling Nacho from prison.
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Series: In the Picture [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828318
Comments: 15
Kudos: 101





	In The Picture

**Author's Note:**

> It's high time we all got a taste of that low-hanging fruit: Lacho prison phone sex.

Mike was right. Lalo was still very much in the picture. He may have been in prison, but he had left a stain on Nacho’s life that wouldn’t come out. 

Every night since he’d been put away, Lalo haunted Nacho’s dreams. He would drive Nacho out to the desert in his ashy gray hellhound of a car, uncharacteristically quiet. He would veer off the highway and head into the scrublands. The cold desert night would whip past the open windows, the landscape littered with out-of-place landmarks illuminated by cheap neon signs and a pale moon. El Michoacáno . . . Tampico Furniture . . . his father’s upholstery shop. When the car finally stopped, the sun would begin to peak over the looming mesas. Lalo would turn off the engine, making his silence all the more pronounced. He would step out, watching the sun vault rapidly over the horizon as he walked to Nacho’s side of the car. He would open the door and extend his hand. Nacho would take it, his own hands trembling, and let himself be helped out of the car. He would begin to speak, ready to plead for his life, but Lalo would stop him with a wicked grin and a paternalistic hand on his shoulder.

“I know, Ignacio. I know everything.”

And then that strong hand would force Nacho to the ground. Pain would explode across his shins as they hit the packed earth, like he’d been hit with a crowbar. He would raise his head to look at Lalo, but he would be blinded by the sun, now high in the sky. Blinking through the searing white light and sweat dripping from his brow, he would turn his head to the side, only to see . . . Some nights, it would be Hector, furiously ringing his bell. Other nights, it would be Gus, clothes carrying the heavy smell of fried chicken. On the worst nights, it would be Mike, an expression of resigned complacency on his face.

No matter the audience, the show was always the same. Lalo would take out his knife. He would shove his hand over Nacho’s brows, forcing his eyes open. With the other hand, he would slowly drag the blade across Nacho’s throat. Nacho could never tell which was hottest: the blazing sun, the blood gushing down his neck, or Lalo’s heady gaze. Each night, he would wake up sweating.

The daytime hauntings weren’t much better. Every time his phone rang, Nacho would curse whatever skin-head scumbag had smuggled Lalo his cell phone. It wasn’t that these chats gave any indication that Lalo was suspicious of him, it was that they were _relentless_. Lalo would call him every day. Some days, they would only talk business, hanging up after five minutes or so. Other days, Lalo’s boredom would keep him on the line, chattering on about all the stupid shit he saw in prison. He’d giggle as he told Nacho about corrupt guards or cafeteria shankings. Even though Lalo would talk to him like they were old friends, Nacho never once felt at ease. At the end of the prison gossip, Nacho would be left with a choice. Either he could come up with inconsequential conversation of his own, (usually about his car or Jo’s latest hair-brained, meth-fueled scheme), or be subjected to another breed of Lalo’s stories. These ones were of a more intimate nature. They were always set in Mexico, populated by Lalo’s spirited mother, his nefarious childhood friends, and of course, precocious young Lalo himself. These stories were always fairly innocuous-- like the time his mom made him say six Hail Marys while kneeling on hard corn kernels after she had walked in on him with his first girlfriend or the time he convinced a twelve-year-old Tuco to steal one of Tío Hector’s guns for him so he and his friends could rob a liquor store. But still, they made Nacho anxious. With each story, he unwillingly unraveled more of the mystery of Lalo Salamanca. With each story, the stain Lalo left on Nacho’s life grew darker.

* * * * *

The day he realized just how right Mike was, Nacho was driving through the desert. In his experience, nothing good ever happened in the desert. But he had to get out of Albuquerque, at least for a little while, so he got on I-40 and headed west. Just when he started to feel like he could breathe again, he was pulled back into reality by an incessant buzzing.

Without bothering to check the caller ID, Nacho flipped open his burner and brought it to his ear.

“Yeah?”

“I’m so fucking bored, man!” 

Great. It was gonna be one of those days.

“You’ll be out of there soon enough. The lawyer, he can handle it.”

“Yeah, yeah . . . So, what are you up to?”

“I’m just going for a drive.”

“Fuck, man, don’t make me jealous! I’d kill to just ‘go for a drive’ right now.”

_Well, yeah_ , Nacho thought. _You’d kill for a hell of a lot less._

Lalo didn’t wait for a reply. “Let me tell you, your Javelin doesn’t have anything on my Monte Carlo, but that is one sexy piece of machinery! How’s she handling these days?”

The question made Nacho’s stomach turn. Lalo was skipping the prison gossip and going straight to the car talk. He didn’t want to think about what nauseatingly human stories might come next.

“She's handling pretty good.”

“Come on!” Lalo whined. “Give me more!”

Nacho dutifully complied. As the Javelin barreled down the deserted highway, Nacho talked about it’s engine, how it felt when he shifted gears, how it rumbled when he toed the accelerator. This was one of the few good things about having Lalo in the picture. Nacho had never met anyone who knew as much about cars as Lalo did, and the way he talked about them with childish glee was infectious. Infectious, but not inexhaustible. Too soon, the conversation turned.

“You know, there’s a guy in here that looks like you.”

So they were back to prison gossip, then. Nacho held back a sigh of relief.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah, just like you! I saw him in the cafeteria yesterday. Shaved head. Big broad shoulders. Short. It’s uncanny!”

Nacho couldn’t help but huff. “I’m not short.”

Lalo laughed. “Anyway, I decided to follow him.”

_Why?_ Nacho wanted to ask, but he knew better than that. He kept his mouth shut.

“It was pretty boring at first. He went out to the yard, he played some cards, he read a book. But then, guess where I followed him next!” Lalo sounded downright giddy.

“Where?”

“I followed him to the showers. And can you guess what he was doing there?”

The desert wind whipping past the open window suddenly turned cold.

“What?”

“He was sucking some guy’s dick!” Lalo was giggling.

Nacho’s jaw tensed. “Yeah, well, every joint’s got its bitches.”

“No, no, no, Nachito! A bitch is someone you have to break. He wanted it.”

Once again, Nacho had to bite back the question burning in his mind. _Why are you telling me this?_

“He’s in the same cell block as me. If I’m in here much longer, I’ll need to start considering my options.”

Lalo paused, waiting for a response. Nacho didn’t give him one. He pushed down harder on the accelerator. 

“I’m sure it wouldn’t take much. The guards will turn their backs on just about anything for the right price. I’d tell his cellie when he needs to scram. Wait until he’s all alone.”

Another pause. More silence. This had to be some kind of fucked-up head game. Lalo was a bored, sadistic child, and Nacho was the ant burning under his magnifying glass.

“Maybe I’d bring him a gift, cigarettes or something. Or maybe he’s not a whore. Maybe all he’d need is for me to take it out and he’d be on his knees.”

Nacho’s heart was pounding. If he focused hard enough on the empty road in front of him, he might be able to expel that image from his mind: this man, his doppelganger, on his knees in front of Lalo.

“I’d make him sit back and watch as I stroked myself. He’d be drooling by the time I got hard. But he’d have to wait. Wait until those big, broad shoulders started to tremble.”

Nacho realized his own shoulders were trembling. He took a deep breath to calm himself, before realizing with a pang of terror that Lalo certainly heard it.

Lalo’s voice pitched lower. “Then I would run my hand over his smooth scalp and guide his head forward.”

Nacho shifted in his seat. He felt claustrophobic. Everything felt too tight. His skin felt too tight, his shirt, his jeans. God, his jeans felt so fucking tight. 

“He’d be so eager to get my big cock in his mouth. He’d want to take it all at once, but he wouldn’t be able to. He would gag, try to pull off, but I’d hold him in place, make him ride it out.”

With one hand, Nacho gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. With the other hand, he started to palm himself through his jeans. He was careful to keep his breathing steady.

“Then I’d pull back . . . push back in. I’d go slow at first. Let myself get lost in that warm, wet mouth of his. Savor the vibrations as he moaned around me. I’d go slow until he started to beg me with his eyes, looking up at me through those long lashes.” Lalo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “ _Dios mio, those fucking lashes, Ignacio!_ ”

Nacho’s breath hitched.

“Pull over.”

The tires squealed as Nacho veered off the road and slammed on the breaks. He wondered if Lalo could hear it. He must have, because he chuckled.

“Then I’d start to fuck his throat. “

Nacho rushed to pull his own aching dick out, not minding the loud clanking of his belt buckle. A few strokes, and he was fully hard. He didn’t bother keeping his breathing in check.

“He’s always so quiet, so uptight, but now, with my cock shoved down the back of his throat, he’d finally let loose. He’d moan _como una puta_. And that would only make me fuck into him harder.”

Nacho’s fast and measured strokes turned sloppy. His hips stuttered and he began to fuck into his own fist. His ragged breathing was matched on the other end of the line.

“Tell me you want it.”

Nacho didn’t recognize the voice that came out of him, strained and barely more than a whimper. “I want it.”

“Come for me, _amorcito_.”

He didn’t know who finished first. Their groans mixed together, crashing over Nacho’s ear like a wave. And then the tide was swept back out to sea and all he could hear was labored breathing.

When Lalo finally spoke, there was a slight snicker in his voice. “Maybe I can wait until I get out of prison.”

* * * * *

That night, Nacho dreamed of Lalo again. This time, they rode not in an ashy gray Monte Carlo, but a flashy red AMC Javelin. Still, Lalo was silent. Dread settled in the pit of Nacho’s stomach. Lalo veered off the highway. The cold desert night whipped past the open windows. El Michoacáno . . . Tampico Furniture . . . his father’s upholstery shop. When the car finally stopped, Nacho scanned the horizon for the sun climbing unusually fast over the distant plateaus. But the night remained unbothered, relishing its own inky stillness. Lalo turned the engine off and got out, walking to Nacho’s side of the car. He opened the door and extended his hand. Nacho took it, his own hand trembling, and let himself be helped out of the car. He scanned the landscape, looking for Hector or for Gus or for Mike, but the scrublands were empty. He turned his head toward Lalo and opened his mouth, ready to plead for his life, but Lalo stopped him with a tender hand on his cheek.

“ _Amorcito. Está bien_.”

Lalo kissed him. Nacho was consumed by a pleasant warmth and then he was floating out of his own body. He looked down and watched as Lalo wrapped one arm around his waist, pulling him closer, and ran his other hand over his scalp. When Nacho woke, the image remained emblazoned in his mind. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The thing about kneeling on hard corn kernels is based on true events. According to many of my family members, the nuns in Bronx catholic schools in the sixties could be pretty cruel.
> 
> 2\. I wanted to drag the car talk out and really show how it turned Lalo on, but I didn't get my license until I was 19. I don't know jack-shit about cars. 
> 
> 3\. When I was reviewing this, I realized that pacing-wise, it's practically identical to my last fic. Whatever. If it works, it works.


End file.
